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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26261275">chronicle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/parhelions/pseuds/parhelions'>parhelions</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>S.C.I.谜案集 | S.C.I. Mystery (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, dramaverse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:20:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,767</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26261275</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/parhelions/pseuds/parhelions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bai Yutong brings up a promise that Zhan Yao thought, in all honesty, had died decades before.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bai Yutong/Zhan Yao</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>129</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>chronicle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Memories, he learned, began around the age of three. </p><p><em>Childhood amnesia,</em> his textbook highlighted in bold print. A vocabulary word, summarized in a neat square box so college students cramming for an exam could pick up on it. In a drowsy lecture hall, sixteen-year-old Zhan Yao read that page and the next, flipping them until the words sat coiled in his head; the textbook was far more interesting than the professor droning on behind the lectern. </p><p>Five years old. The Zhans moved into a new neighborhood, one with wide lawns and trimmed hedges, driveways curving under the shade of magnolia trees. </p><p>Their mothers hit it off since the first exchange of tupperware—long-lost primary school classmates, sons the same age. Nearly the same birthday, even, which they would delight in for years. </p><p>Zhan Yao remembered his dismay at sharing a cake with the knobby-kneed boy next door, which was forgotten when Bai Yutong beckoned him to his soldiers of mulch. The two of them spent evenings puttering around a backyard—Yutong’s, usually, because his mother’s garden commanded a whole fence before they dug their pool—and shredding dandelions to make heads and shields in their own private world. </p><p>"He’s my best friend and best enemy," Yutong told their kindergarten classmates.</p><p>How does that work?" </p><p>Yutong had shrugged, careless, the way they saw people do in movies. "It just does."  </p><p>They tried to outstack each other in wooden blocks (Bai Yutong usually won, Zhan Yao skimped too much on his foundations), competed in coloring worksheets (Yutong kept his desk immaculate, but crayons and pencils were Zhan Yao’s domain), and raced to the swings (a fifty-fifty split, since Zhan Yao actually liked running back then). After school, whisked home with Qingtang in the Bais’ SUV or his family’s minivan, the competition subsided, an unspoken truce declared. Yutong made them magical ham and egg sandwiches, Zhan Yao fetched the pickled daikon, and they spread out a card game or their notebooks, when homework became a thing, on the carpet before the television. </p><p>"It’s weird, you know," Yutong said one day. </p><p>Zhan Yao didn’t look up from his Hanzi set. "What’s weird?"</p><p>It was the fourth grade. They were in different homerooms that year, which meant different assignments. Competing lost its fun.</p><p>"Weddings. The brides look like ghosts or something."</p><p>Yutong pointed at the screen, and Zhan Yao watched a woman, crowned in peonies, sail past in a silk train. Auntie Bai was recording a drama episode later; they didn’t dare change the channel. </p><p>"They are weird," Zhan Yao agreed. The camera cut to a beaming man he guessed was the groom, hair oiled back. Another angle showed the hall decadent with candles and china, each table heaped with tiny white flowers. "But pretty, too."</p><p>"The bride?" </p><p>"No, the decorations, the—" He waved a hand. "Space." </p><p>"Oh." Yutong took a bite in his sandwich and flopped on his stomach. His bony shoulders poked out of his yellow t-shirt; his mother made him wear colors, then. "Our uncle got married last year. They had it outside. Da-jie kept sneezing, though."</p><p>"Was it pretty?"</p><p>"I think so, yeah. In another way."</p><p>Zhan Yao hummed, drifting back to his homework. He was finishing his grammar rules, nibbling on his sandwich to stretch it longer, when Bai Yutong spoke again. </p><p>"Zhan Yao, who’s going to marry me one day?"</p><p>"How should I know?" He picked up his chopsticks, filched a bit of Yutong’s radishes from his plate. Yutong didn’t seem to notice. </p><p>"You’re saying you don’t know something?"</p><p>Zhan Yao grimaced. He didn’t know lots of things, was sometimes in awe by the sheer amount in the world to see and read and know, but admitting it to aloud to Bai Yutong was another matter. His parents argued in snipped tones after he’d been put to bed. The elderly couple that lived on their other side laughed over their breakfast tea. On the TV, the bride and groom kissed. "You’ll marry someone you’ll love. A girl who’s the right amount of pretty to your ugly."</p><p>Yutong cuffed him on the knee. Not too hard, since he was still lost in thought. "What if I don’t find someone? I heard my parents talking about my great-aunt, who they say is going to die as <em>an old maid</em>."</p><p>"Not everyone gets married," Zhan Yao said. "Not everyone wants to."</p><p>A light rose in Yutong’s eyes. Years later, Zhan Yao would recognize it for trouble, the wick of an idea half-baked. But on that day, Bai Yutong smiled guilelessly and Zhan Yao thought nothing of it. "But I’ll have you."</p><p>"Me," Zhan Yao echoed, frowning.</p><p>"If we haven’t found anyone when we turn twenty, won’t you’ll marry me?"</p><p>"That’s too young," he protested, kicking his socked foot. It was true that twenty seemed impossibly old to him, but his parents were more than twice that age. Plus, most people graduated university at twenty-two—not that he doubted the two of them couldn’t get out earlier if they went, but he had an inkling that weddings costed money and were a pain to plan.</p><p>"Fine." Yutong smirked up at him, the picture of untrustworthiness. "Twenty-five?"</p><p>"What if I don’t want to marry you?"</p><p>"What could you want from a husband? I’ll make you all the pickled vegetables you want." Yutong lifted a triumphant brow: <em>you didn't fool me.</em></p><p>"I can just buy my own."</p><p>"Are you going to pay someone to wash your dishes, too?"</p><p>"There’s something called a dishwasher, idiot."</p><p>"But imagine how much fun we’ll have washing them. <em>Together.</em>"</p><p>"Fine," Zhan Yao said, to shut him up. </p><p>"Fine?"</p><p>"Fine."</p><p>They hooked their pinkies together to seal the deal. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Sixteen: the baby fat melted off their cheeks, their legs lengthened, voices cracked. He set his alarm back ten minutes to shave. Yutong’s shoulders broadened; his limbs were braided with muscle from hours of martial arts practice. The bridge of his nose, overbold on a preteen face, was now a commodity worth fawning over. </p><p>The prettiest girl in their year marched up to their lunch table and asked Yutong out. Cutesy dates to the arcades, the ice rink, and the pastel-walled bakeries of Tsim Sha Tsui spanned the long month after, before she broke things off in the same whirlwind she’d entered in. <em>Your face can’t cover your personality, </em>Zhan Yao chided Yutong, though held his hand as he sniffled into his uniform blazer, and pushed in the disk for a PvP game.</p><p>A week later, a cream envelope dropped into Yutong’s locker, and the cycle began anew. </p><p>To think he had been afraid of no one ever wanting to marry him. </p><p>"Chen Yihan doesn’t really need help in trigonometry, you know," Yutong said. He was waiting for him at the school gates, a rare sight. They were drifting apart, between Zhan Yao’s university credits and academic clubs and Yutong’s Sanda matches and student council. When pressed, Zhan Yao would bite back that he didn’t care, didn’t even notice, heading home to an empty house because his parents had divorced and his father had transferred to Hong Kong’s CID, working late into the night. </p><p>Auntie Bai, with a too-knowing look, invited him over several times a week. She asked him to haul in groceries or reach the mung beans that had somehow wandered to the top shelf. She set him slicing mushrooms even though he was garbage at it, inquiring after school beyond his grades being pristine.</p><p>A part of him was grateful. Another part of him felt hollowed out. </p><p>"I know. But the school’s paying me, so I don’t see why not," Zhan Yao said, itching the acne on his forehead. "She’ll probably hand over a confession letter for me to give to you by the end of the week."</p><p>"For someone this smart, you sure are blind," Yutong drawled. </p><p>He bristled. "How so?" Chen Yihan’s heart-shaped face bloomed up. Her ears were flushed. She chewed the inside of her cheek when nervous. She confused sine and cosine too often to be anything but intentional.</p><p>"She likes you, cat."</p><p>The age-old nickname brought a lurid heat up to his own ears. He walked on in silence. Unluckily, Bai Yutong took them as signs of his reciprocation, and grinned. "You should ask her out. We could go on double dates, there’s this sushi bar on—"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"What? Why not? And don’t scratch your pimples, that’ll make it worse."</p><p>"I don’t like her." He didn’t. Girls could be beautiful, he had <em>eyes</em>, but in the same remote way paintings were, or buildings. He didn’t want to touch one, much less kiss one.  </p><p>"But you two would be good together." A thicket of boys spilled out of a store in front of them, and Yutong fished Zhan Yao out by his wrist. He felt an insensible urge to rub the skin there after he let go. "Well, there’s Song Meng on the softball team. You should hear the conversations they have. I don’t see the appeal, but people find you handsome."</p><p>He didn’t rise to the bait, tempting as it was to bicker the hollow in his chest away. "No."</p><p>Yutong must have seen the stony set of Zhan Yao’s mouth, as he sighed and let the matter go.</p><p>Summer crept in. They fell into the routine of lounging around each other’s houses in their boxer shorts, tearing through <em>The Moonstone</em>, Hercule Poirot, <em>Hanging Devils. </em>They argued over red herrings by the poolside. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Yutong took a class at the university with him. In the evenings, their high school classmates invited them to cookouts and house parties across the city. Zhan Yao came with him a few times, but complained—loudly—about the crush of people and the taste of beer, to which Yutong wheedled and whined but decided it wasn't his scene either. Equilibrium returned.</p><p>Except Zhan Yao’s gaze flitted to Yutong’s golden skin, the cut of his clavicles. His hands were deft and sure as he peeled apples. He wondered, in those hazy moments after waking, how those hands would feel on him.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>At twenty, Zhan Yao graduated from HKU. Qingtang flew home to attend his ceremony, and the siblings each hefted a bouquet of obnoxious pink gladioli into his arms when he emerged from the sweltering lineup.</p><p>Back at the house, his mother and Aunt Bai cooked a deluge of his favorite dishes. His father remained silent, conversing with the Bais but neither Zhan Yao nor his mother. For that he was content; the pendulum between frigid neglect and overbearance had swung back for the time being. Wine bottles were opened. Qingtang recounted anecdotes of her travels (she would give Zhan Yao and Yutong the unfiltered versions later, out of their parents’ earshot), and Chief Bao stopped by and clapped his shoulder. </p><p>At midnight, he and Yutong stepped out into the darkness of the back patio. </p><p>He had watched Yutong down wine at a slippery rate the whole dinner. A rarity, since Yutong took pride in his mental faculties and reflexes and had rollcall on the detectives’ floor the next day. Zhan Yao held onto the bottle. </p><p>"...It doesn’t feel right," Yutong slurred, syllables thick. </p><p>"What doesn’t feel right?" Zhan Yao asked. </p><p>"It—doesn’t." </p><p>He set down his glass. "You’re not making any sense."</p><p>The couch beside the potted palms was wide enough for three people, but Yutong careened into his side, Zhan Yao reaching out to steady his weight in vain. His arms wrapped around Zhan Yao’s torso, trapping him into the armrest.</p><p>"Don’t be clingy," Zhan Yao said, catching his breath. The smell of Yutong’s almond shampoo filled his lungs.</p><p>"Mmph."</p><p>"You really drank too much. How does it feel to be nagged, hm?"</p><p>"Mrgh."</p><p>Zhan Yao sighed. </p><p>The minutes stretched, Zhan Yao trying to pry Yutong’s fingers from his glass, Yutong nuzzling into the crook of his neck, their thighs touching. By the cherry tree, the lightning bugs winked in and out. The ornament they’d crafted in kindergarten, the one Uncle Bai hung from his office balcony, chimed in the low breeze. </p><p>"I think I like men," Yutong muttered, out of the blue. "Not just women."</p><p>"Ah," was all Zhan Yao got out, at first. Why did he feel the need to get <em>drunk</em> to tell Zhan Yao? Which meathead recruit at the academy had sparked Yutong’s interest? Was he afraid of— "It’s alright," he tacked on, realizing his lack of a response could be construed as disapproval or worse. Sure enough, Yutong let out a breath at his side. "I—me, too." </p><p>"You." Yutong’s voice was incredulous. </p><p>"Only men," Zhan Yao amended. His pulse thrummed in his veins. </p><p>Yutong flicked the back of his head. "And why didn’t you tell me?" </p><p>"It wasn’t that important."</p><p>"You...didn’t answer my question."</p><p>"There’s a chance you’re probably not going to remember it, anyways," Zhan Yao said, eyeing the dredges in his glass on the wicker table. He didn’t have much of an answer. It was unlikely Yutong would buy <em>time got away from me, </em>even if that was the truth. Part of it, at least. </p><p>Yutong did not respond, and Zhan Yao thought, true to form, he must have dozed off. </p><p>Then a soft touch grazed his mouth. Yutong had lifted his hand and was thumbing Zhan Yao’s lower lip. </p><p>Zhan Yao felt the pit of his belly sink through. </p><p>He leaned back, trying to decipher Yutong’s inscrutable stare. The studs in his newly-pierced ears shone in the gloom. It had been years since he’d fumbled with the realization that Yutong was attractive and that Zhan Yao didn’t have a shot in the dark at Yutong ever looking at him twice. He had buried the possibility, fled from it as he did from home, scattering applications across the ocean with the hope that one would stick and be his ticket out. One did. More than one, in fact. In less than a week’s time he would be on a flight to Tokyo (then Houston, then New Haven, names on a distant map), away from his father and his mother and the family he had known since he was five years old. </p><p>He would finally breathe. It didn’t make leaving any easier.</p><p>"Xiao Bai, just because you like men doesn’t mean you like <em>me,</em>" Zhan Yao whispered, keeping his tone flat to hide the fact that he was lightheaded with want, frozen in his seat. </p><p>"Do you not want to kiss me?" His thumb remained a brand on Zhan Yao’s chin. He sounded so petulant, but looked so pensive, that Zhan Yao smiled, startled when Yutong pressed their lips together once, clumsy and sweet. Nowhere near enough. </p><p>Zhan Yao pushed him off, and Yutong, sloshed, went easily, toppling atop the couch cushions. He hiccuped, then fell asleep, leaving Zhan Yao sitting in the dark.</p><p>His heart ached in his chest. All the burying and running away did not amount to much, in a friendship almost as old as memory. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>"This is a nice place." </p><p>Zhan Yao unlocked his door. "Still fond of making rash judgments, I see."</p><p>Yutong stepped through the threshold, not looking remotely winded from carrying his suitcase up four flights of stairs to Zhan Yao’s floor. "Knowing you, the fact that there are no scorch marks on the ceiling is nice enough."</p><p>Without waiting for permission, Yutong padded down the hallway, hands in his pockets. Though Yutong at twenty-three was more serious, less rowdy, he was the same sturdy presence Zhan Yao had grown up with. The walls of his shoebox apartment seemed to cave in around him. </p><p>Itching for something to do, Zhan Yao put a tea kettle on the stove. He had rounded up the containers of takeout and wiped down the countertops and ran across the laminated floor with a sweeper-mop before Yutong arrived at Union Station that morning. Not enough time to do anything but dust his bedroom, and to make sure the trashcan was devoid of certain wrappers from several nights before.</p><p>Surprisingly, Yutong did not comment on the maze of his bookshelf when he emerged. He didn’t say much at all, alighting curious eyes on his surroundings as Zhan Yao led him through downtown, then to the campus, showing him the monkish TA office, the labs he split his time at, classmates and undergrads calling and waving to him on the walks between. He snapped a photo of Yutong in front of Beinecke to send to Aunt Bai. Yutong picked stray autumn leaves off Zhan Yao’s coat without a hint of sarcasm. </p><p>"What’s bothering you," Zhan Yao prodded over lunch. They had talked over Yutong’s recent cases, a string of kidnappings in Hung Hom. Zhan Yao had followed the news online, pretending his pulse didn’t jump every time a young detective was mentioned, first for exposing a coverup in the upper echelons of a company, then all the way to the clink of the handcuffs, victims freed, trials set. Off duty, Yutong should be nosing into Zhan Yao’s patience right now. </p><p>Instead, Yutong blinked at him, eyes wide with faux innocence. Zhan Yao knew better. "Nothing."</p><p>"Tell me."</p><p>"Ask nicely."</p><p>"...Please tell me."</p><p>"Nothing."</p><p>"Bullshit."</p><p>"Rude."</p><p>A medical student who worked with Zhan Yao appeared at his shoulder, asking a handful of points about an abstract submittal. He squeezed Zhan Yao’s arm and strode out. They had grabbed drinks last weekend; crowds and overpriced cocktails were not his thing, but he had to start somewhere. He shoved down a flush—casual dates and sex to forget about the man he was in love with was jarring when said man was <em>right here</em> in the flesh and not a tinny voice on a long-distance call half a world away.</p><p>Zhan Yao turned back to Yutong, who seemed to skulk deeper into his plate. He had pretended not to hear the medical student’s greeting. "He can speak both Mandarin and Cantonese. You could have introduced yourself, you know."</p><p>"Hmm. I must have not been paying attention." Yutong did not meet his gaze, face blank. He shifted in his seat. "If it’s serious, call him and I can do it over."</p><p>He might as well have sprouted two extra heads. Zhan Yao shook his own slowly, narrowing his eyes. "I would have told you if it was. Did you not sleep on the flight here?" </p><p>"I did," Yutong replied evenly. "Really. No need to psychoanalyze me, <em>Dr.</em> Zhan. It must be the jetlag, if anything."</p><p>"Shut up."</p><p>"I’m shutting up." Yutong forked a slice of pizza into his mouth, gesturing to his chipmunk-stuffed cheeks until Zhan Yao dropped the subject. </p><p>Yutong made an effort for normalcy after that, pestering Zhan Yao to accompany him to the grocery store and the Chinese supermarket. With an unsurprised glare at Zhan Yao’s lone pot and skillet, he poached and fried chicken, sauteed vegetables, filled his apartment with the scents of home. He baked a sponge cake for Zhan Yao to bring to his research team. They took a ferry up the Long Island Sound, where Yutong laughed as he dragged Zhan Yao, cursing under his breath, up the last weathered steps to the top of a lighthouse. Two days later, Zhan Yao, damp from a November rain, found prawn soup steaming on the stove and a towel flung at his head. </p><p><em>Overcompensating, or apologetic, or both</em>, Zhan Yao mulled, charts of a neuroscience study blurring before him. <em>For what? </em>They had never been shy at crashing at each other’s places before. There was no guest-host courtesy in their pile of things to argue about. There shouldn’t be. </p><p>
  <em>Did he know? </em>
</p><p>He glanced at Bai Yutong sprawled on his fraying couch, leafing through pages of a <em>National Geographic</em> at random, sounding out the words to himself.</p><p>Impossible. Zhan Yao had reminded Yutong of his admission that next day, Yutong jolting awake at dawn to run to the bathroom. He did not remember kissing Zhan Yao, and Zhan Yao did not remind him. The following week, through the packing and planning, he swallowed the truth that he was simply there, convenient and familiar. The week passed. He had gotten on a plane. He had hid the bitterness, because that was his own fault. </p><p>He bought a bus ticket to accompany Yutong back to LaGuardia. A few fat flakes fell, sticking to the windows. Yutong insisted he had seen real snow before, one New Year’s in Shanghai; Zhan Yao retorted that those dustings were puny on the grand scheme of Connecticut winters. It devolved into an old argument about the proper way to make a snowman that neither of them had any business arguing about, Yutong spewing some nonsense about <em>two</em> buttons being sufficient.</p><p>The airport soon loomed above them. </p><p>"Well, it’s been fun," Yutong said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.</p><p>"No, it hasn’t," Zhan Yao countered, just to be difficult.</p><p>"If you freeze to death out here, I’m claiming your celadon tea set."</p><p>"To sell?"</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>A snort. They had walked this path before, when Zhan Yao left three years ago. It was mirrored, now. The tide of travelers faded around them. </p><p>Yutong held up a hand, boarding pass winched between his fingers. "Don’t miss me too much."</p><p>"I won’t miss you," Zhan Yao shot back. </p><p><em>You’re not fooling me,</em> Yutong’s mirthful eyes responded. Zhan Yao watched him until he disappeared around the corner of the security check. He wore a white button-down, white jeans, a dove-gray wool coat. In a rush, Zhan Yao slid years back to that bright afternoon on the shag carpet, vinegar and radish in his mouth, a dewy-cheeked bride, a pinky-promise. <em>You look like a ghost,</em> he wanted to say.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Under the haze of anesthesia, Zhan Yao slept clean through their twenty-eighth birthdays. Yutong was there when he woke up, and there before the painting in the old concrete tower, devils and angels leaping in the shadows. </p><p>He followed Yutong out. </p><p>The twilight deepened, crescent moon a thin slash on the blue-black. Yutong drove them to the station, then home, one hand on the steering wheel, parking in the usual space. Chief Bao had bid them rest after their report. </p><p>"So. It’s three years late," Yutong mused, rinsing off the last plate.</p><p>A pause—and then Zhan Yao knew at once what he was talking about. In the torrent of Lan Changlin and Zhao Jue and fires on the mountainside, he had forgotten, any messages lost in the mix of hurried hospital visits. A lifetime of friendship, of unrequited love, welled up as a cold stone in his throat. He pushed out a laugh. "You remember?"</p><p>He ducked to return the chili oil into the refrigerator, schooling himself through a breath. He caught sight of stir-fry, packed in identical glass containers. In the drawers laid fish in butcher paper, bags of carrots, a winter melon. He closed the door, glimpsed the block of Yutong’s favorite stainless steel knives on the counter, his plain enamel mug on the rack. Without looking, Zhan Yao knew his closet, never full to begin with, was half pale, half dark. <em>I’ll catch ghosts with you.</em></p><p>The spell was effortless, heady. Some mornings, in the dreamlike state after Feng Jie (<em>Five centimeters,</em> he’d said. A hair’s breadth away from a lung or the arch of an artery), he woke to Yutong’s palm on his hipbone, their legs tangled together.</p><p>Any day, he would wake in another universe. This was his life—he went on to Columbia for his postdoc, he returned to America. He studied serial killers from the comfort of an office chair. He saw Bai Yutong less and less, then years would run together and he would fall out of love. He kissed other people without thinking about him. Yutong would become a childhood memory, one of pure fondness and no bitterness.</p><p>Another life; a false one.</p><p>Yutong did not laugh.</p><p>He dried his hands on the tea towel and stood before Zhan Yao. </p><p>"Xiao Yao." Yutong was handsome, familiar features solemn under the wash of the kitchen lights. "Of course I remember." </p><p>Zhan Yao swallowed. The ache burned in his chest. Yutong was searching his face, something like fear tinting his movements. </p><p>"We were watching a drama finale on TV and I got the idea—"</p><p>"—to ask me to marry you," Zhan Yao finished. <em>Jaw set. Fear. Eye contact. </em>His thoughts raced ahead of him, slinking away as quickly as they came. "Why are you bringing it up now?"</p><p>Yutong hesitated, hand curling on the edge of the countertop, then seemed to make up his mind. "Let’s be together," he said. And it was that simple.</p><p>Breathless, Zhan Yao looked, and looked. <em>Hope. Adoration. </em>The knowledge was before him. Had been for a stupidly long time.  </p><p>He nodded.</p><p>Yutong stepped into his space, tentative, as if Zhan Yao would dash away as a skittish kitten. He took his hands in his own. "Are you serious?"</p><p>Zhan Yao felt the corners of his lips twitch up, letting Yutong lace their joined hands like he’d always wanted to. "To answer your ancient question, no, I won’t marry you. Not yet, anyways."</p><p>Yutong smiled. "And to the new question?"</p><p>Zhan Yao leaned in the last of the distance and kissed him gently, tugging his hands free to cradle Yutong’s face. Sighing into his mouth, Yutong kissed him back.</p><p>Their lips slid together in an affection and a heat that Zhan Yao had never grasped with his hookups, the lonely years of his dissertation. The countertop was solid at his back. Yutong’s hands looped around his waist, dipping to skim the hard edge of his tailbone. Zhan Yao's fell to Yutong's shoulders, irritatingly broad. The hum of the kitchen lights. The soft smack of their lips as they kissed and kissed.</p><p>He tapped at his shoulder. Yutong drew back, irises swallowed by black.</p><p>"Take me to bed," Zhan Yao said.</p><p>"Are you sure?"</p><p>Zhan Yao stared at him.</p><p>Yutong obliged.</p><p>This was real: Yutong pressing him into the mattress, kissing him senseless. Their ties slipped off with ease. The buttons on Yutong’s shirt were smooth as Zhan Yao unfastened one, then two, fingers muddling in the orange dimness of the streetlights. With a huff, Yutong batted his hands away and undid them himself. </p><p>Zhan Yao nipped at Yutong’s collarbones and tasted salt. Let his hands map out the chest he had rested his cheek against and admired in the back of his mind but never touched, not like this. They drew back to kiss again, breathing hard.</p><p>When Yutong lifted his leg and sucked a bruise on his inner thigh, a mortifying mewl left his lips. This earned him a laugh that Zhan Yao thought to pinch his arm for, then didn’t think much at all. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Yutong flicked on the lamp. "I realized it when we were twenty," he murmured. </p><p>"<em>What.</em>" Zhan Yao opened his eyes and twisted to look at him. A coolness on his stomach; Yutong was cleaning him up with a washcloth. "Then, the night I graduated..."</p><p>Yutong paused, gaping at him. "I thought I dreamt that."</p><p>"Like hell you did," Zhan Yao groaned. He slung an arm over his eyes. Yutong had been <em>jealous</em>, that autumn visit to America. He should have observed more rationally, but rational thoughts were rare when they concerned Bai Yutong. "We’re here now, aren’t we." </p><p>"Here," Yutong repeated. He could feel him raise a brow. "Looks the same to me."</p><p>Zhan Yao blew out an exasperated breath. "You know what I mean."</p><p>Yutong swooped down, startling Zhan Yao with a kiss at the tip of his nose. The washcloth inched between his legs, resting there. </p><p>"In other news, when are you going to brush your teeth?"</p><p>"Tooth decay occurs over days, not hours," he groused.</p><p>"You weren’t this disagreeable when I was—"</p><p>Zhan Yao sat up to snatch his hand away, and Yutong dodged out of the room. </p><p>Later, after they had climbed into bed, Yutong warm at his back, Zhan Yao admitted, softly, "It was longer for me."</p><p>Against him, Yutong stilled. "How long?"</p><p>"I don’t know. Sixteen, seventeen. Since you started fooling around in high school. I thought I’d get over you by leaving, but."</p><p>"I’m that good, huh. <em>Ouch</em>, Zhan Yao, you—"</p><p>He tussled with him under the covers, ending with Yutong straddling his hips and speckling kisses on his face, claiming to make up for their failure of a first one. </p><p>Yutong held him once more, and was out like a light. Zhan Yao hid his smile in the pillow.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so uh i recently watched s.c.i. two years late &amp; these childhood frenemies got me :’)</p><p>not sure if the show or novel said how old they were or where zy studied (besides his dad mentioning new york), so please let me know if i’ve missed it. (<em>edit</em>: ty for reccing the liliesareflowers translation!)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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